For reasons unknown even to me, all of my kid’s names end in “n”. Because they all sound the same, I usually end up yelling a combination of their names before resigning myself and just add, “…I mean, Whatever-Your-Name-Is, stop sprinkling your brother with that watering can full of kool-aid!”
Since this name issue continues to befuddle me, I have resorted to nicknaming all my children to help keep their identities apart. My oldest son, I call Number One or Bug. My middle child I call Dilly Doodles, Boohoo, Dee, Deedles, and Middles. My youngest child I usually just call Littles, Itty Bitty or Dan Gun (the tae kwon do form I was doing while preggers with him.) Other times, I just call them all Mr. Brown.
When I was pregnant with our oldest, whenever anyone would ask what we were going to name the baby, I would announce with the straightest face I could muster, and my proudest voice, “We’ve decided to call him, Lambert!” I was fairly certain my Mother-In-Law was about to pass out when we told her, however after nearly eight years I think she has finally forgiven me. Secretly, I was starting to worry. What if he comes out and we really do call him Lambert his whole life?
Recently my Number Two son came home from pre-school and announced with childhood glee, he had decided to change his name. I was intrigued. What would a four year old like to be called? “Is it Fred?” I asked him playfully. “Noooooo!” “Is it George?” I persisted. “No, Mom!” “Well, then is it Arnold? Ralph? What? Tell me, I give up!” A broad grin permeated his little face. “It’s… Stick-A-Pencil-In-Your-Belly-Button!” (AAAKKK!) “Why that name?” I asked cautiously. “I dunno, Mom, I just like it.” That was all the explanation I ever got. He insisted we call him by that name for about a month before he finally moved on to his next name, Purple Fire Dragon. I give up, what’s in a name anyway?
